Stolen Election? Probably

Joe Biden: “We have put together I think the most extensive and inclusive voter fraud organization in the history of American politics.”

Nothing to See Here

The Center for Security Policy published an opinion piece the other day with which I agree – Nothing to See Here. As the United States of America goes full Zimbabwe, I take some comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in perceiving a real problem relative to mainstream media and government unwillingness to address obvious fraud, failure, and conspiracy.

Why Wouldn’t They Cheat?

This article over at Townhall posted several days ago – Why Wouldn’t They Cheat? – outlines clearly what the myriad of useful idiots on the left and their masters think of those of us who will never willingly travel with them. And, importantly, how those mistaken beliefs have driven their electron fraud strategies.

Democrat-Communist Agenda

The Democrat/Communist party has an agenda that includes:

  • Significantly reducing overall employment in order to force as many people as they can to rely upon government handouts to subsist. The Chinese Coronavirus has allowed Democrat governors to force huge numbers of citizens out of work and destroy many small businesses. They’re trying to create a need and then “meet” it. To create a problem and then “solve” it.
  • Paying those cognitively best suited for menial employment to stay home on the basis of a spurious disability in order to create a labor vacuum to draw millions of illegal aliens into this country as a means of fundamentally transforming it into the image of a third-world cesspool or, if that doesn’t take, in order to balkanize the United States of America so that some Democommunist “redeemer” type, like Obama, can preside over its dissolution.
  • While in the mean time forcing the nation to serve as a host to the parasitic “needs” of “less developed” failed nation-states.
  • Whether or not their electoral fraud scheme is ultimately successful doesn’t matter much to them because even if they fail to install their chosen dementia patient in the White House, in the eyes of several million of their useful idiots, they succeed in further dividing the nation and delegitimizing the second Trump administration and the constitutional election process.
  • Obscuring the fact that BLM/Antifa is the moral equivalent of the KKK and other exclusivist, chauvinistic groups that espouse violence to achieve their ends.

And so forth. All of this should be obvious to persons of even average intelligence.

How to get from Stepford to Pixley on a Bike

Last Saturday (6/16/12) I got up early intending to ride out to the Pot County administrative plaza over in Pixley (previously misspelled, by me, “Pixilie”).  I think I’ve mentioned somewhere else in this space that I reside at Stepford in Pot County.  The kind you pour from, not the kind you smoke.

I wanted to visit a couple of friends over there, one of whom I had not seen for several months.  When you’re halfway smart, it’s hard to have friends because, really, who are your peers?  I guess my answer to that question is anyone who is oriented to reality and competent in fulfilling their life’s work is my peer.  Both of my friends at Pixley have probably got some standard score points on me in one or two WAIS-IV subscale domains.  It does me good to spend time with these guys – both have experienced more of life within and without social, educational, and religious systems than about ten other average people.  Sort of like spiritual Samsons.

Razesa-Ready

The ride to Pixilie is about 24 miles, round-trip.  I’d hoped to pedal the Miyata, but hadn’t got the Continental Gatorskins yet that I ordered sometime last week from www.biketiresdirect.com and was still having severe lower back pain every time I rode the bike and was still having trouble with the gears/chain pretty frequently slipping down to the smallest of the three chainrings (I have since leveled the saddle and tightened the shift levers).  The inexpensive but brand-new Schwinn tires that came on the bike’s ancient 27” rims I reckoned unequal to the task.  So I loaded up the Razesa, which is an awesome bike, and headed out.

The morning was already warm as I turned right heading out of Burnt-Down-Plantation Estates on to Country Club Road.  Passing the turn-off to that august institution (where I’ve actually eaten lunch and dinner a few times, although not since I’ve moved to this neighborhood), one rides on past a palatial mansion behind gates and a wall on one’s right, then past Revolutionist Acres, and, at the corner of that subdivision and Country Club, turns right onto Catfish Billy Road which connects at the bottom of fun hill and a flat place to Old Pixley Highway.  A left onto OPH is quickly followed by a right turn onto Husk Road, and, riding past a water tower on one’s left and a Faction Two bottling and distribution facility on one’s right, one comes to the main highway.

The four-lane connects Stepford to Pixley now that this part of the world has no passenger rail (must be about 40 or 50 years now, maybe more).  Engineered for the use of motorized vehicles, the highway has wide paved shoulders suitable for riding a bicycle that’s got Gatorskin tires.  From there, once safely across the four lanes of traffic divided by a grassy median, the ride is easy over long, not-very-steep hills on in to the glorious seat of county government hereabouts.  From driveway to destination, about 12 or so miles.

Recycling Center

Making fun of the place I live, having grown up and lived a lot of my life in other places, is something about which I have no qualms.  My friends, however, I’m not inclined to mock.  Is not Augustine quoted or misquoted as having said, “Gold from Egypt is still gold.”  My friend Reginald has something to do with the recycling center behind Pot County Administrative Plaza.  He’s there on Saturdays and Wednesdays.  About three years ago, when I was looking for a place to dump a pickup truck full of junk and trash I’d cleared out of the house my wife and I’d just purchased in Burnt-Down-Plantation-Estates, Reginald informed me I couldn’t dump most of that trash there.  He suggested the municipal dump at Stepford (which was closed when I got there, but I did find a convenient dumpster on the highway running from Stepford to Hooterville).

Who knows how, but we got talking about the things of God and found we are both Christians.  As we talked, Reginald sometimes broke off conversation to assist elderly recyclers or to engage regular recyclers in conversation.  This population of recyclers appears to be his parish, if parish is the word I want.  Reginald is a tall man with red hair, a moustache, and an at times alarmingly direct gaze.  He reports a post-secondary education education at a couple of the better thought of Southern schools (Baccalaureate and Juris Doctor) that I have no reason to doubt, as well as an impressive career arc that brought him to the humble-seeming place I met him after he and his wife “decided to live on purpose.”  Reginald’s manner of speaking, as well as the content of his speech, does one good to hear tuning the mind of listener to the conversational norms of about a century ago.  Here is a photograph he permitted me to take last Saturday.

R-Portrait

Last Saturday, as I said above, I rode out to the recycling center to visit with Reginald.  At first he agreed to let me interview him, but as we began he said he felt uncomfortable with the process, and I did, too.  So we just visited.  Sometimes it is good to let someone else direct the conversation and to listen attentively.  I’m not good at that, never really trusting anyone else’s perceptions much except to check them in order to gather more data.  Because I don’t really trust other people, there’s this tension, and it’s hard to listen unless I’m mining data.  Anyway, I guess my discomfort with trying to interview Reginald has to do with the fact that I think he’s an immensely valuable human being and I want to know what he knows, but I think he deserves better than to be expected to tell me what I think I ought to know, as opposed to letting him tell me whatever it is he wishes to say to me.  Probably because my early survival, figuratively and (to a degree) materially, depended on categorizing perceptions regarding circumstances and people while noting connections and disconnections in order to discern what is real from what has been asserted by others as real, I continually do that to this day in all of my interactions with other people.

Reginald told me a story about his great-great-great grandfather, one William Bobbit, who was born on an adjacent farm to the one where James K. Polk was born somewhere in North Carolina.  Both men raised families in Maury County, Tennessee, and both owned plantations near one another in North Mississippi.  Polk had a rule that his overseer was not permitted to whip any of his slaves on the plantation, but had to send a message to Major Bobbit to ride over in order to personally administer correction.  The theory being that one who has never owned any property (the redneck overseer into whose hands Polk had effectively abandoned his slaves in order to carry on with the business of the law or government) would not have the sense or ability to refrain from damaging same.  That “correction” was administered only when the slaves had run away, often to Tennessee, to see their relations.  Reginald told me that while at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he happened upon some letters Major Bobbit had written to his friend Polk.  In one of them, describing the election returns from two bellwether counties, reported that “Mississippi is safe for democracy for two more years.”  Interesting is the evidence that the phrase, “safe for democracy,” predates by at least 50 years Woodrow Wilson’s use of it at the time of the Great War in the early part of the last century.

Politically, Reginald strikes me as liberal, so I kidded him by telling him half-seriously that in the coming presidential election, he should vote for Romney, who is actually a conservative Democrat, as opposed to voting for Obama who is an anti-American Communist.  And very frankly, I think most Democrats who consider themselves Americans first, will find they have an easier time working with Romney than with Obama.  Reginald said that when, as a younger man, he held an official position in Mississippi that brought him into frequent contact with local reporters, he was wont to give them interesting statements that became their leads, and he therefore became the only person whose statements were correctly quoted in the papers.  Possibly in reference to my advice to vote for the Republican, Romney, in November, Reginald said,

“I can’t imagine why anybody would want to abandon the party of Slavery, States’ Rights, and Manifest Destiny for the party of Abolition, Isolation, and The National Debt that Alexander Hamilton started.”

Which statement may be the best on-the-record quote I’ve ever heard anybody utter.

I telephoned to my friend, Theodore, to see about meeting him someplace for coffee, but he said he would drive over to the administrative plaza and we’d motor someplace.  For a long time, I’ve thought Theodore and Reginald should meet, probably because they’re two of the five or six guys I respect most.  When I introduced them, I misidentified Reginald as an Arminian and when he denied it and looked at me like he was going to knock me down (considering what I’d just called him, he had every justification if he’d done it).  I tried to excuse my gaff by referencing his previous work with the Methodists of Memphis and Reginald said the fact that he’s no longer associated with them may have something to do with his theology.  I’m not sure why my jaw was spared.  Probably

Here are a few of the photographs I took at the recycling center (click on them for larger images):

Texas-ThermometerCarlo-RossiClear-GlassClear-Plastic-bWater-Cooler-BottlesRezesa-Waiting

Ecclesiology

Theodore pastors the small congregation with whom (if whom can be used as a plural) my wife, son, and I have worshiped for several years, now. I recently wrote elsewhere that from the first time I heard him preach (in the loft of a converted barn), I marveled that God had sent someone of his caliber to this obscure corner of Christendom.  We drove over to the Pixley Cracker Barrel over by the freeway and talked ecclesiology, books, and ate lunch.  We talked about the recent Calvinist v. Arminian controversy in the Southern Baptist Convention.  Our congregation is loosely affiliated with the SBC, and we’ve talked among ourselves at business meetings about whether or not there’s any benefit to be had from that association.  Maybe some, probably not much.  I had a fried-egg sandwich with hashbrowns, apples, and a biscuit with jelly.  I figured it would be okay since I had plenty of exercise ahead of me.

I have been thinking more and more about the utility of what is usually known as the “House-Church Movement” – requires very little in the way of tithes and offerings to maintain a system that has much more to do with culture and visible status within the culture than (it seems) to do with Christ and what the scriptures of Old and New Testaments seem to indicate the congregation called by God should be about.  Most of the “church growth” schemes I’ve encountered and read about appear intended to promote the sort of growth cancer cells are known for, and it is not for nothing that one of the New Testament Pauline metaphors for understanding the relationship of the Church with Christ is that of the body.  Are mega-churches actual functioning organelles of the whole body, or are they misshapen, tumorous growths?  Most likely, not always the one and not always the other, and one may morph into the other, from good to bad, pretty easily, I would guess.

Another topic was whether families should or are willing to relocate in order to serve the larger body of Christ in places where there is no Reformed witness.  What this may depend on is whether or to what degree the believer reckons the Church (and by using a capital, I mean the company of the redeemed through time, but also at present) a greater priority than the believer’s own family.  Does this sort of commitment require some kind of special call to ministry or missions of sort culturally recognized in what passes for the Church in North America and leads to careers in church systems at home and abroad?  Is it something one can or should be willing to do on the basis of persuasive speech or the voiced conviction of another believer?  Is it some that requires the sort of conviction attributable to the Spirit of God?  Does God expect the believer to intelligently husband the resources God’s given?  Does God expect the believer to take (to use a hackneyed phrase) “a leap of faith”?  Should a group families uproot and migrate to another city without having secured work sufficient for their support and housing?  How about living in one’s circumstances in such a way as to provide “salt and light” – can that not be done here as well as there?  If we’re starving together here, should we go over there to starve instead?

That last question reminds me of the people of Israel who’d left Egypt with Moses and complained in the wilderness and whom God answered by giving them their fill of bread and meat, and with it, leanness of spirit or heart.  Hosea 11:1 speaks of the love of God for Israel, having called his son out of Egypt.  Christians believe that statement of historical fact was additionally fulfilled prophetically when the family of Joseph the carpenter returned from Egypt after death of Herod the Great and those who’d sought the life of the Christ child.  Migration.

A literal translation of the last few verses of Matthew’s gospel reads as follows:

Mat 28:16  But the eleven disciples went into Galilee, to the mount where Jesus appointed them.
Mat 28:17  And seeing Him, they worshiped Him. But they doubted.
Mat 28:18  And coming up Jesus talked with them, saying, All authority in Heaven and on earth was given to Me.
Mat 28:19  Then having gone, disciple all nations, baptizing them into the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,
Mat 28:20  teaching them to observe all things, whatever I commanded you. And, behold, I am with you all the days until the completion of the age. Amen.

Literal Translation of the Holy Bible, copyright © 1976-2000 by Jay P. Green, Sr.

Implicit in Jesus’, “Then having gone,” is the inevitability of the going, of dispersion, migration.  A laundry list of the reasons people migrate include such things as escape from persecution, securing economic opportunity, reunion with family, forced relocation by governments, and so forth.

After lunch, we drove back to the recycling center where I stayed a bit longer before pedaling back to Stepford.

Selling a Car, Other Stuff

Why?

Can somebody tell me why every one with a .ru web address is a spammer?  Sort of a mirroricity thing to the observation about the ‘religion’ of terrorists.

Selling a Car

Saturday afternoon we sold Caution-Lady’s white 1993 Volvo 940 turbo sedan.  We’d had the car since 2002, at which time I was working as an underpaid reporter for perhaps the sorriest publication in the American Southeast.  When we set out shopping, Caution-Lady said, “I don’t want a white car – I don’t like white cars.”

Our shopping budget was $4,000.00, but we wound up paying about $6,000.00 which included tax, registration, and so forth.  The expense stretched our household finances, but we managed it.  When purchased, the car had 107,000 miles on the odometer – the standard break-in period for a 4-cylinder redblock Volvo engine and drive-train.   My wife absolutely loved the car.  I didn’t drive it much, but every time I got behind its wheel and drove it to the gas station, the mechanic’s garage, or on family trips, I found myself thinking, “This is a great car….I’m glad we spent the money to buy it.”

Well, if you’ve got even the sense to say and spell your name, you ought to know that the purchase of a car for daily driving is an expense and not an investment.  It typically loses value over time unless some disaster of biblical proportions destroys all the other cars of that model year, or unless that same thing happens over a very long period of time, or unless some half-witted administration in Washington implements a “Cash-for-Clunkers” program that removes a large number of good used cars from the marketplace.

The white car’s original bill of sale (found among its Volvo issued set of ownership publications in the glove compartment) listed a sale price when new as, if I recall this correctly, $22,9xx.xx.  In 1993 dollars.  I think Cadillac sedans were selling for about that at the time.  I believe that year I was driving a 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit diesel coupe and grateful to have it.  Our selling price for the car about 17 years later was $1,500.00 – a reasonable mid-range price based upon the car’s condition, mileage (158,000) clean Carfax, and a look at Kelley Blue Book, Edwards, and NADA valuations for that model car in clean condition.

My wife is a teacher, and in 2002 taught in her class the boy who, with his family, bought the car yesterday.  Although she said she felt sadness about the car’s sale, she said the fact that it had gone to a good home that would care for it made the loss more bearable.

Last week, we’d had it out to the garage to get a sun-visor replaced, driver’s side carpet replaced (it was torn-up when we bought the car and we never seriously thought about having the problem corrected), and a new fuel-pump relay (a known weak spot for these cars – we’d had a new one a few years ago, but they typically don’t hold up well in the southern heat of Middle Tennessee).  The weekend previously, I’d fueled and washed the car, vacuumed it out, dusted all the dust-gathering surfaces, cleaned the door-jambs, cleaned the wheels, dressed the tires.   Even after a week in the mechanic’s yard, the 940T looked good.  I felt a sense of loss as I drove the car back to our house thinking it might be for the last time.  I thought, “This is a great car.”

Feats of Comparative Urination

It may surprise some of you to know that I correspond with three or four groups of people on the Internet.  I used to find some pleasure (because a lot of people are dolts who will not apply their minds to issues) arguing about stuff like theology, the feminization of what I think of as a variety of small “c” cultural christianity that passes for the church in North America, comfortable and country-club orientation of much of that classification, and so forth.  While I still like exchanging ideas about boats, cars, garden tractors, theology, and culture, I’m a lot less het-up about issues of ultimate and eternal significance.  Probably I’ve already said everything I have to say about most of it, and I recognize I have a lot still to learn.

So at one of these online communities (and I’ve personally met a number of these folks and genuinely like them), when discussions devolve into arguments, I have lately refrained from commenting.  I do want to make clear, however, the following:

  1. I don’t believe God’s will includes my submitting to some kind of transformative experience that ends in my having developed what the character Mark on Ugly Betty might refer to as spiritual “lady parts.”
  2. While I agree with most of what Viola and the pollster (whose influence clearly kept Viola honest vis-a-vis their co-authored book) had to say in Pagan Christianity, I don’t think organic church requires the purchase of any more of Viola’s books or attending his conferences, or developing spiritual “lady parts.”
  3. One of the most annoying heresies is the notion that one can effectively forgive oneself.

Tool

I saw these photos juxtaposed on the Drudge Report this afternoon and spontaneously quipped, “Putin’s cool, Obama’s a tool.”

Obama v. Putin

Putin's cool, Obama's a tool

Just trying to keep it classy here, people….

Conservative T-Shirts That Mock Liberals, Oh My!

This morning I posted a link at my Facebook profile (search Facebook for Christov_Tenn) to the website of an online retailer of T-Shirts and other paraphernalia emblazoned with sometimes mocking and otherwise humorous or clever conservative slogans and/or designs. Heck, I didn’t even choose a mocking image to illustrate the link, just a simple McCain/Palin campaign T. One of my cousins, as far to the left as I am to the right, mocked back in the comment box Facebook provides. Other comments were posted. When I returned home from work, I drank about half a pot of black, room temperature coffee left over from this morning, soapboxed a wordy reply of my own.

Here’s the design that seems to have incited the Facebook exchange:

Is this offensive?  Should conservative slogan-writers be required to produce what amounts to comfort speech for the left?

Is this offensive? Should conservative slogan-writers be required to produce what amounts to "comfort speech" for the left?

And here are my comments posted in response to those of my cousin:

creating an environment…” (cousin’s name removed), I’ve got to say, “Blah, blah, blah.” Political mockery is absolutely something that Americans of every ilk have always indulged in. If anything, it allows us to blow off steam and release tension.

We are never under any obligation to utter “comfort speech” to any group or person. Free political speech is a constitutional right.

I guess if you want to be scared over there on the left that some “lone gunman” might commit a crime upon the basis of the mocking replacement of sibilant with a labial stop, you’re free to express your fears in the same way those on the right are to express their fears about the possibility of some authoritarian, power-hungry socialist whip-cracker ceding national sovereignty to ideological brethren in the United Nations.

But c’mon, let’s have the courage to poke fun at all the asshats who imagine it is their divine right to impose their half-baked ideas and wills upon us.

Adds a final blah, steps off soapbox

And a little while later, after I realized my mistake:

Hey, but the reason I posted this link in the first place was to give my own ideological brethren (which at this point means those willing to press McVote touch-screen-happy-meal button for “Anybody but Obama”) a source for McCain Palin T-shirts since the local Republican headquarters are all out of them.

Sibilant & stop I got mixed up, supra. Actually the unintended meaning in re: the aspersion cast is pretty funny in itself.

I thought it would be interesting to bring it out here into the blogosphere.

Have a look at some of the T-Shirts and stuff at MetroSpy, then tell me whether they scare you, whether the people who find them amusing scare you, whether you find them amusing, or whether they make you want to burn thing and throw stones outside embassy gates…

The poll’s skin is a soothing pink bearing the image of a buttlerfly, a universally recognized symbol that bespeaks change and peace, intended as comforting framework within which to meaningfully express by clicking true sentiments in the safe online world of Mr. Christov’s WordPress blog.

Troubled By Dreams

Over the past maybe four or five weeks I have been troubled by dreams. Not all of them. Three, particularly.

The first of the dreams was one wherein the Clinton woman and I sat down to discuss her candidacy, and what she needed to do to remain a viable candidate. It was pretty simple, really, all she had to do was to clearly and truthfully answer the one question most important to someone like me – Why should a social and fiscal conservative vote for you? In my dream she had a good answer, and I awoke with a sense the woman is genuine, intelligent, and that she is, at some core level conservative, that we hold to similar values. So yeah, I woke up troubled. The dream seemed more real than the run of the mill dreamland adventure. I didn’t want to write about it, because I didn’t want my thoughts to escape into the real world where they might effectively aid a Clinton candidacy. That’s pretty absurd, of course, but also a measure of the dream’s strangeness, clarity, and felt realness.

The second dream followed a couple of weeks later. In the dream I met and interviewed, I think, all three of the candidates. Obama impressed me as just another power-hungry grab-ass crooked pol, and reminded me (just as he does in the waking world) of a lizard-like cat who’s the overpaid pastor at the non-SBC First Un-Baptist Church of Stepford. McCain, during a time where I observed him doing campaign stuff, and interviewed him briefly, struck me as a man devoid of spirit or integrated self – spiritually hollow, but full of stuffing or attic insulation material. Again, HIllary Clinton impressed me during our dreamland interview as the one genuinely Christian (with a big “C”) candidate running for presidential office. And, at least in the dream, I liked her and thought, “This woman can be trusted.” Effing crazy, and for the second time disturbing, eh? Again, I didn’t want to write about this, my second bizarre dreamland political encounter.

Last night, however, I had a dream as vivid, and more disturbing than the previous two. I don’t know whether it has anything to do with those dreams briefly described above.

I awoke to find myself speaking with a woman who said as she got into it, “There is a hiding place beneath the mantle in this house I bought.” She pulled the trapdoor down over her head, and I saw her standing in a nice little room under the hearth. I saw a man in a straw fedora, blue shirt, necktie, and light colored-suit who appeared to be of her social-class and age (upper middle) walking into the livingroom above her head, looking for her. Quietly menacing, he paused over the hearth, looking at the fireplace and mantle, and I reached in and held the trapdoor down, and the man left.

A little later, I was walking in the dreamland seaside neighborhood and was to its residents a visible part of that world. I struck up friendships with the people I met, most of whom were Jewish. They knew I wasn’t a Jew, but seemed to like me anyway. What they didn’t know was that I was a traveler from another world, that is, my own waking world. And I knew that something horrible was going to happen in the neighborhood and to my new friends – I tried to encourage them to prepare for the coming of a persecution that would grind away every pleasant summer afternoon. Of course, how can you tell the people of Dreamland that you see their future?

During a coastal cruise on someone’s yacht, a storm blew in with waves that pushed the boat to shore. We got out and struggled soaked and splashing up the beach.

Returning to the neighborhood, we found most residences occupied by both their owners and government monitors. A surprisingly large number of people had managed to hide from the officials in their own homes in hiding places built for the purpose. Usually just one or two from each family group had been chosen for hiding, as it did not seem practical to most for the entire community to appear to the government to have vanished. But one or two from each family might go unnoticed, might escape whatever unknown evil was about to befall them all.

For some reason, I was able to come and go as I wished, was able to converse with those in hiding, and those living in apparent compliance with new government strictures.

Later, I drifted away and upward from the dreamland, and as I did so, I saw a slick television commercial advertising seaside houses in France at bargain prices with clever animations showing floor-plans with novelty hidden rooms – all great fun to own. And I knew that my friends had not escaped. I was left with a sense of dread because I thought at first what I was witnessing had happened already during the 1930s and 1940s, but the commercial seemed to indicate a horrible future.

Why France? Dunno, I guess maybe because I’ve watched and written recently about Jaques Tati’s Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot. Seaside village. Innocence. No reference in that film to the then recent horrors of homeland overrun once more by warring forces of other nations.

So, those are the dreams that have troubled me. Maybe writing about them will purge them from my psyche. We’ll see. Certainly the first two will have me branded a heretic and a liberal; but really, I am neither. The third dream perhaps will bring accusations of anti-semitism, but if anything, the dream revealed me a strong desire I harbor to oppose any pogrom.